


I Think She Likes Girls

by humblepirate



Series: Umbrella Academy/Reader Fics [6]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Boss/Secretary, F/F, Female Reader, Fingering, Lesbian Relationship, Lesbian Sex, Light D/s, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Strap-Ons, The Handler is a lesbian, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humblepirate/pseuds/humblepirate
Summary: Request: Handler x Reader 🥺🥺 I'll literally take anything but the idea of her having a secretary or something is *chefs kiss*
Relationships: The Handler/Reader
Series: Umbrella Academy/Reader Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1937500
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	I Think She Likes Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedlyEmma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedlyEmma/gifts).



> The first part took me so long to write and then the smut scene just flowed right out of me in like twp hours lmao. There's nothing really triggering that I can think of in this story but please note that the reader is The Handler's secretary if that kind of relationship makes you uncomfortable!

You had been nothing before the Temps Commission. You don’t remember anything of your life before the day an agent had plucked you off the streets like a stray, brought you to the Commission and given you a name and a purpose. 

Orientation had been brief and confusing. While everyone else filed off for briefcase training, however, you were brought to a different wing. They placed you in a small, windowless room containing just a desk and a chair. The room’s only other significant feature was a door in the opposite wall from the entrance with a clouded glass window and “THE HANDLER” in stark black letters.

You truly could not guess what kind of person would be named “The Handler,” but the woman who greeted you was nothing like what you might expect. She was sturdy and slim, blonde, dressed in a lacy black gown that looked more suited for a fancy gala than an office. Everything from her perfect coif to the pinprick heels of her stilettos was sharp and immaculate. She was a vision.

You were smitten instantly.

As soon as you stepped into her office, she had jumped up from her seat, shooed away the agent accompanying you and guided you into an armchair across from her desk. Instead of returning to the seat she had been occupying, however, she perched on the edge of the desk and sat regarding you with an inscrutable smile.

“I’m so glad they found you,” she said. “My last secretary was hopeless. Terribly sweet, but the poor thing could hardly operate a stapler. It was a shame we had to let her go, but.” She shrugs and flashes the whitest smile you’ve ever seen. “C’est la vie.”

She pushed off the desk and took a seat in the armchair beside you with the same sharpness of movement with which she seemed to do everything. “Now tell me, what are your credentials?”

Your mind floundered. You hadn’t realized this would be an interview, and you’d had nothing prepared. What had you done for work before this? Dear god, did you even have any credentials?

Before you could figure out what to say, she placed a comforting hand on your forearm. “Oh, dear,” she said, “they really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

You weren’t sure what she meant, or who “they” could be, but your brain didn’t have much room for anything except the feeling of her skin on yours.

“Not to worry. You seem like a quick learner.” She removed her hand from your arm and you almost asked her to put it back.

She leaned back in her chair and regarded you carefully, like she was trying to memorize you. “I hope this isn’t out of place to say, but you’re very different from most of the people who come through here.”

Your confusion must have shown on your face, because she continued, “The people who work here tend to have a certain… resignation to them. They’ve made peace with what the work entails. But you...” She sat up straighter and leaned toward you. “There’s still a little bit of that starstruck wonder in you. A naivete.”

You had no idea what she meant by that, and she did not elaborate.

She cocked her head and regarded the brass pin on your chest. They had given it to you in orientation and told you that it was your employee identification number.

“Oh, no, that will not do at all,” she hummed. She reached out and tapped on the metal with a perfectly manicured nail. “Serial numbers are so dehumanizing, don’t you agree? What name should I call you instead?”

You don’t know what possessed you to respond quietly, “I don’t have a name.”

She regarded you in comfortable silence for a few moments, then broke out into a dazzling smile. “Well, then,” she said, “I suppose we’ll just have to give you one.”

She leaned closer, close enough that you could see the miniscule pores in her face and a tiny black eyelash that had fallen on her cheek. “Miranda?” She tilted her head. “No, too plain. Maybe something more befitting your era. Dorothy? Margaret?”

She reached up and caressed your cheek, and you felt all the blood in your body rush to your face.

“No, those names are too common. You deserve something truly special.” Her eyes flicked over your face in quiet thought. “Penelope, maybe. Or Ophelia. Something classic and unique, to match that keen wit.”

You weren’t sure how keen you could possibly be considering you’d barely spoken since you got here. Your mouth opened without you telling it to and you heard yourself say, “I’ll like any name you give me.”

She stroked her thumb over your cheek and gave you a smile that made your heart stutter. Then, with the quick sharpness of everything she did, she straightened up and snapped her fingers triumphantly.

“Erato!” she declared. “The ancient Greek muse of love poetry.” She clasped her hands against her chest and sighed happily. “Unusual, interesting, and historical. It’s perfect.”

_ All the things I’m not _ , you thought but did not say.

At that moment there was a brisk knock on the office door, and then it opened to show a bespectacled woman carrying a mountainous stack of paperwork. The Handler smiled and stood, and you realized you should stand too, though with a significantly smaller measure of the feline grace with which she moved.

She grabbed your shoulders in a startlingly firm grip and gave you a smile that was both comforting and predatory at once. “I think we’re going to get on wonderfully, dear Erato.”

The work of a secretary is dull. Despite being an inter-temporal company with an obscene amount of resources, the Commission insists on completing all work on machines older than some of the people using them and three times as slow. You’re easily the youngest person on the administrative staff by several decades, and you rarely interact with any of the other secretaries aside from a clipped “hello” in passing. It makes for a very lonely work environment, and some days you’re one more Excel crash from throwing in the towel completely.

The thing that keeps you here, the one force keeping the gossamer-thin thread of your sanity from snapping, is the Handler. You find yourself showing up extra early to your desk to make sure you never miss greeting her in the morning, and you dawdle after the end of your shift hoping she’ll invite you to walk to the parking lot together. Every afternoon you pray she orders in for lunch so that you get the brief blessing of delivering the food to her desk. 

Outside of this, it’s rare for you to speak with her for more than a few seconds. You’re still not sure what exactly her job is. You have no illusions about the Commission’s purpose, but it’s difficult to reconcile the image of your sweet, smiling boss with the horrific details contained in the files that pass through your desk. You do sense a coldness in her sometimes. She’s always polite, even friendly to you, but in the way one would treat a very useful tool rather than a dear friend.

Of course, you’re not friends. You’re not even colleagues; you are a secretary, and she is your boss, and the work you do is necessary but menial and ultimately doable by anyone with the ability to use a stapler. Any hopes you might have of it becoming something more are just fanciful illusions.

Despite knowing all this, there’s some part of you that still cannot accept that the idea is an impossibility. What can you say; you’re a hopeless romantic.

And so you went to sleep early that night, setting your alarm an extra hour ahead to give yourself time to get ready. You pulled the curlers from your hair and coated them in enough hairspray to deflect a bullet, broke out the wine-red lipstick you’d bought ages ago but had been too nervous to wear in public, and traded in your usual drab business attire for a stunning pink floral dress that you’d been saving for a special occasion. You topped off the ensemble with a few sprays of your best perfume and admired the coiffed stranger in your mirror.

Now  _ this _ could get The Handler’s attention.

There are hardly any cars in the parking lot when you arrive at the office, and you see no one else on your journey to your desk. After you settle in and turn on your computer, you realize that you’ve entered the worst part: the waiting.

You sit up tall in your chair and drum your nails on the desk, watching the hands on the clock ever-so-slowly tick their way onward. You shouldn’t have come in this early. The interim stretches on just long enough for you to realize how foolish you were to do this. What on earth were you thinking, trying to seduce your boss? You sappy, foppish, pigheaded idiot!

You’re about to run to the nearest restroom and scrub off all your makeup when the door to the hallway opens, and The Handler steps through it.

She’s a vision, as always: prim platinum blonde hair tucked under a stylish beret, body ensconced in a sleeveless polka dotted gown with a collar sharp enough to kill and a slanted hem that shows off every inch of her slender, flawless legs. Your mouth goes dry at the sight.

She turns to you for her usual morning hello, but the word freezes on her tongue. She stares at you with an inscrutable expression and it occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen her caught off-guard.

Then her mouth slides into a sinuous smile. “Good morning,” she says.

You return her smile with your own innocent one. “Morning, boss.”

She laughs, a melodic, tinkling sound that makes you think of champagne and perches on the edge of your desk. “Come now, Erato,” she says. “Don’t you think we’ve worked together long enough that we can dispense with the official nonsense?”

The way she’s looking at you makes something deep and warm curl inside your chest. “I suppose so,” you reply.

“Good.” She boops your nose with the tip of a perfect fingernail and stands back up. “Now, I have to get to a meeting, but we should be wrapping up by noon. Would you meet me in Conference Room B to go over the second quarter reports?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

She glances back at you, and the intensity in her face makes you suck in your breath and sit up a bit straighter in your seat. She doesn’t say anything but quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes, Handler,” you correct yourself.

She gives you another one of those smiles that make you feel simultaneously treasured and prey-like before she slips into her office.

Your eyes don’t stop flicking to the clock on the wall, which seems to be ticking more slowly than usual just to spite you. Finally, at 11:45, you can stand it no more. One quick stop in the restroom to touch up your makeup, then you’re hurrying through the warren of offices with your heart thudding against your ribs.

The conference room is empty but for a long table lined with a dozen wheeled chairs. You feel weird sitting down, so you linger against the wall and try to keep your heart from tearing itself right out of your chest in anticipation.

There’s a soft  _ click _ behind you, and before you can turn around there’s a gentle but firm hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you for your patience,” she murmurs. “Your punctuality is one of the many reasons I’m glad I hired you.”

You swallow hard and turn to look at her. She’s standing so much closer than you’d expected and you’re temporarily paralyzed by her intense stare and the alluring pout of her lips.

“Th-thank you,” you manage to stammer out.

She smiles like you’ve just told a mildly amusing private joke, teeth gleaming menacing white against the deep red of her lipstick. She steps back- you briefly mourn the loss of her hand on your arm- and pulls out the chair at the head of the table.

“Sit,” she says.

It’s not until you’ve taken the seat that you realize how hard your legs are trembling. You expect her to sit down as well, but instead she lingers behind you, hands trailing absently over your shoulders and caressing your hair.

“How long have we known each other? Six, seven decades?” she muses.

“Um…” It’s hard to focus past the sensation of her fingers on your skin. “About that, y-yeah.”

“And how long have you wanted me to fuck you?”

Oh, god. Her words hit you like a sledgehammer and your head starts swimming. You hadn’t been able to articulate it until she said the words aloud, but the desire washes over you in a dizzying wave and you realize-

“Since the moment I met you.”

You can hear the smirk in her voice. “Good girl.”

Then she spins your chair around so you’re facing her, and there’s something different about her, something feline to her posture, something-  _ huntress _ -like.

She places her hands on the conference table behind you and leans down, close enough that you can see the tiny silver flecks in her irises. 

“What do you want, darling?”

Your throat goes dry, your heart stutters, and before you can stop yourself you’ve grabbed her by the collar of her dress and pulled her into a paralyzing kiss. Her lips are like venom, the kiss swimming through your veins and leaving your limbs weak and trembling. You moan despite yourself and your face grows hot with embarrassment at the admission of your lust, but she seems to like it; she tilts her head and thrusts her tongue into your mouth, panting breaths mingling with your own, pressing into you like a bruise.

Her fingers reach for the buttons of your dress and your heart leaps as you realize what she wants. You quickly fumble the dress open and maneuver it off your shoulders without breaking the kiss. She yanks it the rest of the way and it falls to the floor in a whisper of fabric.

You cry out when she extracts her lips from yours, but quickly hush when you see the awe in her expression. She leans back and rakes her appraising gaze over your body. You’d chosen your most seductive lingerie, which, granted, isn’t nearly as grand as what she must have in her wardrobe, but the way she’s looking at you sends a hot, pleased flush through you.

“Were you planning for this?” she says teasingly. Her smile is gentle, but there’s an intensity in her eyes that makes you shiver.

“Y-yes,” you admit.

She just stands there admiring you, and a small instinctual part of you wants to cover yourself, but a much bigger part is thrilled by the excitement with which she watches you.

“Stand up,” she orders.

You jump out of the chair and hold yourself straight and stiff. She brushes past you to sit in the chair, then tugs on your arm.

“Up,” she says.

With a rush of arousal and self-consciousness, you realize she wants you to straddle her. Your heart is pounding in your throat as you climb into her lap. You’ve never been this close to someone before, and god, it’s a lot, but… it’s  _ good _ .

She strokes one silk-gloved hand over your throat. “So pretty,” she murmurs to herself.

You realize how embarrassingly damp your panties are when she’s barely even touched you. You swallow hard and feel the ripple of your throat under her hand.

“What would you like from me, darling?” she hums.

_ That depends. How much time have you got? _

Sensing your indecision, she amends, “Do you want to kiss me? Do you want me to finger you? Do you want to taste me?”

Yes, yes, and yes  _ please _ .

You’re painfully conscious that this is your first time, though, so you decide to take it one step at a time. “Can you p-please touch me?” you whisper.

“Good job using your words,” she says with a smile, and you feel a rush of pleasure at the praise.

Then she’s dragging you into another soul-shattering kiss and you’re completely unconscious of anything except her lips on yours. She removes your bra with practiced fingers and you groan when her hands find your breasts. It’s the simplest, most beautiful pleasure you’ve ever felt, and every drop of blood in her body is rushing downward. You moan and grind down against her lap.

She digs her nails into your thighs and you break off with a cry. She cups your chin and tilts your face toward hers.

“Don’t be greedy,” she hisses. Then her face relaxes into a sweet smile and she says, “Ask me for permission.”

Your face immediately heats up, but you force yourself to stammer out, “Please, Handler, w-would you touch m-me?”

She groans and leads you back into a kiss that paralyzes. She snakes a finger under the waistband of your panties and you gasp into her mouth when it finds your clit. She wastes no time in taking you apart, stroking and rubbing you in a way that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your veins. 

“Is that alright?” she smirks.

Damn her, she knows it is.

“Please don’t stop,” you gasp. You wrap a hand around the back of her neck to hold her in the kiss while you rock your hips against her fingers. Her other hand caresses down your spine before delivering a sharp strike to your ass that makes you whine and arch against her.

She takes advantage of the position to duck her head and suck one of your nipples into her mouth. Your hand slides into the back of her hair and grips hard, your body trembling between the pull of her mouth and her fingers. The pleasure is building, shuddering through you like an earthquake, and you feel simultaneously like you never want it to end yet if it doesn’t you might just die.

“S-so good,” you groan. She hums and switches to your other nipple, ghosting her teeth over the sensitive flesh, and you suck in a sharp gasp.

The pace at which she’s stroking you increases, and then you feel a shock go through your body when her other hand brushes over your entrance. You’re embarrassingly wet and she slides two fingers in with no resistance. You toss your head back, eyes squeezed shut against the intensity of the pleasure gripping you, your entire body trembling with it.

Suddenly she releases your breast and reaches up to nibble and suck at your neck. She’s panting too and you feel warm knowing she’s affected by it too.

“Are you close?” she whispers.

“I-I think so,” you warble. “Oh, god.  _ Fuck _ , it’s so good, Handler.”

“Come for me.” She presses quick, fluttering kisses along your jawline and her hands speed up on you. “Come for me, darling.”

You’re briefly struck by the realization that you don’t know  _ how _ . You’ve never had an orgasm before, but you trust The Handler’s ability to take care of you. So you wrap your arms around her shoulders, held up by her powerful body, and let her carry you to oblivion.

Her fingers work harder, faster, and you feel like you’re being taken apart. Your skin feels flayed and fragile, exposed, on  _ fire _ . You’re gasping around desperate, ragged breaths, and tears are pushing through your eyelids.

It hits like a gunshot, sudden and consuming, gutting you like your soul was just yanked out of your body. Your eyes fly open and your mouth stretches around a noiseless scream, your whole body stiff and shuddering with pure, molten pleasure.

You come down slowly, your head spinning, heart racing, every muscle trembling. Carefully The Handler removes her fingers and coaxes your face to hers.

“How are you doing, dearest?” she asks softly.

You don’t have enough energy to speak, so you just pant and nod dumbly. She grins and presses a kiss to your lips, long and dirty and deep.

She pulls back and you whine at the loss of her. Then she murmurs, “Do you still want me to fuck you?” and you are suddenly, violently ready to have her in you.

She laughs at the eagerness with which you nod at her. She guides you off her lap and your legs are still shaking so hard you have to hold onto the table to keep from falling over. Here you are, naked and wet and barely holding it together, and her hair isn’t even mussed. 

She undresses with deliberate slowness. First she peels off her gloves, the silk still shiny with-  _ god _ , with  _ you _ . She removes her hat, taking the time to place it neatly atop the gloves, then undoes the zipper of her dress. She shucks it off her shoulders, revealing a sliver of her black lace bra, and you bite your lip as a powerful wave of lust pounds through you.

_ Finally _ , the dress falls away and she steps out of the puddle of fabric to fully reveal herself to you. She’s wearing a black corset adorned with lace and intricate beadwork that you can’t wait to rip off of her. She keeps her black stilettos and tights, which you can now see end halfway up her thighs and are fastened with garters to her panties. And wrapped around her hips-

“Seems I wasn’t the only one planning for this,” you tease.

She smirks in return. “I always keep it on hand for emergencies,” she says.

The strapon isn’t very realistic-looking, for which you’re kind of glad. It’s slim and made of smooth black silicone. Your mouth is starting to water just looking at it and you feel a pulse of arousal dampen your panties.

She moves toward you with a commanding stride and stops just far enough away to avoid touching you, and you have to restrain yourself from rushing forward and just jumping her bones.

“How do you want me to fuck you, baby?” she asks.

Your eyes roll back in your head at the rush of images that speed through your mind. You settle on the easiest one you can think of.

You kick the chair out of the way and leap up onto the conference table. “Fuck me on the table,” you gasp, and quickly add a broken “Please.”

A predatory smirk steals over her lips. She stands between your legs and settles her hands on your hips. The strap brushes over your clit and you shudder.

Then she’s crushing her lips to yours, bruising and powerful like she wants to devour you. She grinds the strap against you and you shudder with the need to grind back, but you don’t want her to punish you for being greedy. She groans into the kiss like she senses how good you’re trying to be for her- you really are trying so hard.

She guides you down until your back is pressing against the table and your feet braced against the edge. Then she breaks the kiss only to duck down and redirect it to your clit, and you seize up with the sharp burst of pleasure that shocks your spine.

“Oh  _ fuck _ \- thank you, god, thank you,” you cry. Her self-satisfied chuckle vibrates through your sensitive body. 

She wraps her arms around your thighs and drags you closer so that she can lick and suck on you at her pleasure. You whine and squirm under her ministrations. Wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you, coiling your spine tighter, your whole body shaking from it. She slips two fingers inside you and thrusts at an angle that makes you shriek.

“Mistress- I’m gonna come,” you gasp.

She speeds up, tongue thrumming against your clit, a third finger sliding in to stretch and pleasure you. Your orgasm hits you forcefully and brutally, making you dizzy with erotic ecstasy. Her fingers work you through it and when she removes them, you feel strangely empty. You just had two consecutive orgasms in less than ten minutes, but you still feel needy, desperate for something  _ more _ to fully sate you.

The Handler stands up so you can see her stick the three fingers in her hand and suck them off, moaning obscenely. You prop yourself up on your elbows and meet her in a kiss that tastes like lust and sweat and the sharp strangeness of-  _ you _ . You groan and reach for the strap of her panties to tug her closer.

“Needy, needy,” she teases. But her chest is heaving and her breath comes in stuttering pants. She pecks the corner of your mouth before straightening back up. She peels open a condom packet (where she was keeping it, you’ve no idea) and starts to slide it over her strap.

You frown. “What’s that for? It’s not like you can get me pregnant.”

She chuckles. “It’s easier to clean up this way,” she explains. She finishes rolling the condom on and swipes a hand through the copious wetness between your thighs. “I don’t suppose we’ll need any lube?” she smirks.

Your face flushes with shame and arousal. She sucks the finger into her mouth, closing her eyes and letting out a shaky moan. Then she’s lining herself up with your center and the strap is pressing into you.

It’s not tight or painful like you’d expected; you’re so turned on she could raw you immediately, but she takes her time sliding in. She lets you feel every inch sinking into your hot, needy center, making you squirm and pant and moan with the pleasure.

By the time her hips meet yours, you feel like a star about to supernova. She lingers there, pressing all the way into you, smirking down at the sweaty, begging mess she’s turned you into.

“Ask nicely, sweetheart.”

Helpfully, your throat goes dry and you struggle to get the words out. She grinds her hips in a slow circle, not even close to what you want from her but enough to make you moan.

“P-please,” you gasp.

“Please, what?”

“I…” You swallow hard. “Please fuck me.”

“Please, who?”

“Please, Handler?”

She grinds against you and the strap hits a spot that makes you shriek.

“Please fuck me, mistress!”

She grins hungrily and finally,  _ finally _ draws her hips back and then thrusts forward again. You moan happily as she starts to move inside you. Her fingers rub over your clit and sends brutal shocks of ecstasy through your body. In minutes you’re a writhing, panting, begging puddle completely unconscious of anything except the way she’s fucking you.

Your fingers scrabble over the surface of the table, desperate to grab onto something, to anchor yourself in the sea of pleasure in which you’re drowning. The Handler leans forward to press your wrists against the table, holding you completely at her mercy and driving into you with rapid, aggressive strokes.

“Don’t move,” she orders. She lets go of your wrists and you obediently keep them resting above your head. 

She hooks her arms under your knees and drags you closer, pounding into you at a slightly different angle that makes you gasp out her name. You’re helpless against the waves of naughty satisfaction washing over you, the slap of her skin on yours and her own harsh breaths beneath your own. You gasp and cry out as you’re filled, again and again, every thrust dragging you ever closer to the edge you’re so desperate to topple over.

“What a good girl, taking my cock so well,” she grunts. “You’re an absolute dream, darling. Total perfection.”

“Thank you, mistress. You fuck me so well,” you whine.

She growls and her thrusts slow; her hips move languidly, deeply, savoring the way you twitch and leak all over her cock. It’s so good but it leaves you empty and wanting, desperate for the fast, brutal strokes that will bring you to your next orgasm.

You let out a ragged sob. “Please, mistress, please fuck me harder. I’m so close,” you moan. “I can’t take the teasing anymore, please.”

God, you really are greedy.

The Handler laughs softly. “I know, lovely, I know.”

She releases your thighs and lets your legs relax over the table edge. Then she leans over you, hooks one of your legs over her shoulder and  _ thrusts _ , and you scream at the sudden and beautiful pleasure of it. She gives into her desire and pounds into you with fervor, her head falling back and growling low in her throat. You let your body go limp against the table and surrender to the overwhelming lust lighting up your veins with a loud cry.

She uses her grip to drag you closer so your bum is off the table entirely, pressing down so that your body is bent nearly in half. You’ve never been so open, so vulnerable, and it’s exhilarating. Her lips crash into yours and you can taste the coppery-sour tang of sweat and blood. You don’t have enough breath to beg anymore, just gasping half-formed pleas into praises into her mouth as you hurtle toward your end.

Her fingers find their way to your clit and that’s it. Two strokes and your body is curling inward, spine cracking and legs widening as the ecstasy overtakes you. Your scream echoes around the conference room uncaring of whomever might hear you. It goes on forever, naughty pleasure thrumming through your core and out to every part of your body, clouding your head with beautiful dizzy joy.

It takes a long time for you to open your eyes, and you’re so glad you do. The Handler has cast aside the strap and is bracing herself against the table with one hand, the other quickly stroking herself to completion. You sit up and drag her into a violent kiss as she topples over the edge. She trembles and moans into your mouth until the aftershocks have receded, then collapses on the table at your side.

You both lie there, panting as you come down from your respective highs. You feel like you have no skin, like your body is just a tingling ball of light and happiness. Your cheeks are damp with the tears of an orgasm so powerful your body didn’t know how else to release it. 

You sit up and groan at the stiffness in your limbs. It’s not entirely unpleasant with the aftermath of your orgasm still swimming in your veins, but you know you’ll be unbelievably sore tomorrow.

The Handler sits up and wraps an arm around your shoulders. She presses gentle kisses into your hair, stroking a hand up and down your back. “You did wonderfully, darling.”

“Right back at you,” you giggle.

For a few moments you lean against one another, just reveling in the moment. After the silence starts to stretch, though, you feel like you ought to say something else.

“So,” you say, “what do we do now?”

She tilts her head in thought. “Well, first we need to go see Susan in HR and fill out form 358J detailing our employee-supervisor relationship. Then we-”

You nudge her playfully. “No, silly. I meant…” You look down and bite your lip. “What about us?”

She places a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to hers. You’re struck once more by how unfairly beautiful she is, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from begging her to bend you over the table again.

“What do you want to do, dear one?” she asks.

You shrug. “I want…”

It’s a risk, you know, but you have to at least try. “I want to be your girlfriend,” you force out. 

Instantly your face flushes hot, but she just smiles gently.

“I think we can make that happen,” she murmurs.

She presses forward for another slow, soul-draining kiss, and as you melt into her embrace, you thank whoever is responsible for the turn of fate that brought you to her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and shoutout to WickedlyEmma for the inspiration!! Please go check out her fic The Seamstress if you need more gay Handler content. I'm always taking requests on here or on tumblr at humblepirate. Have a great day!!
> 
> Chapter title from the song of the same title by Metro Station.


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